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One Cabinet area that was giving Carter trouble was Justice. His close counselor, Charles Kirbo, headed the search for an Attorney General. The trouble was that the familiar Establishment names, the people who had the proven legal and management skills, often lacked the inspirational or symbolic touch Carter wanted. By last weekend it was clear that the larger departments would probably be headed by white men, however long the search went on. So Carter was faced with the decision of whether to overlook the legal credentials needed for Justice and pick someone like Patricia Harris, a black lawyer from Washington, or Barbara Jordan, or perhaps a black federal judge from Pennsylvania, Leon Higgenbotham, who has extensive legal experience but little management background. The FBI choice posed a different challenge. Mondale, especially, urged that the FBI have a director from outside Justice, a man with few ties to Carter or his staff. Said Mondale: "We need a tough, hardheaded civilian to rehabilitate that place."
At week's end Carter headed back to the voluntary isolation of Plains—back to the den and the speaker telephone and his own red logbook. He would study further the profiles that Mondale and Jordan had ordered up and continue his own interviews. But he would do it alone. It always came to that: the choices were his. And Carter clearly relished his isolation. Even his secretary was located ten miles away in Americus. During the three days when Rosalynn was in Mexico two weeks ago, Carter did his own cooking and a maid came by only once to clean the house. He only occasionally makes the trip down the street to Plains anymore. When Jordan arrived last weekend with more black books, Carter was up on a flat part of the roof raking off leaves. A man with heavier days and heavier choices ahead of him, Carter was hanging on to the pieces of his past that he treasured most, the home and people he will be leaving behind, the place where he feels closest to himself.